An American Dream

All of my grand-parents came to America from Italy by steamship atthe turn of the century with little more than the clothes they werewearing. That is, except for my mother's father, Salvatore Eovino. Hebrought the family jewel -- his personal account of how he decided togo to America. To this day his story resonates with meaning foranyone who has ever thought about why so many people immigrated herethen, and still do today. My grandfather's adventure helped shapethis special issue of MONEY.Grandpa was a gentle man. My earliest memory is of him carrying mearound his grocery store on his shoulders so I could take any cerealI wanted off the top shelf. According to him, however, he had afrightening temper as a youth. One day, in a shouting argument withhis mother, he smashed several jars of her preserved tomatoes withhis horsewhip, jumped on the family horse and galloped down fromtheir village on Mount Vesuvius to the Bay of Naples, 30 kilometersaway. There he traded the animal for one-way passage to a better lifein America. He was 16.My grandfather lived the American dream -- the real thing, not themovie version. He sold tomatoes on the corner in Brooklyn, savedenough for a pushcart and then got a horse to pull the cart. Afteryears of peddling door to door, he bought a store in Cliffside Park,N.J. with three rooms in the back -- just enough space for him andhis wife Louise to raise five daughters, including my mother Anne.The five girls slept together in one bed as children and joked aboutit as adults.Salvatore was thankful that his family had food on the tableduring the Depression; that neither his youngest daughter, whovolunteered, nor his sons- in-law, who were drafted, were killed inWorld War II; and, above all, that his children prospered withouthaving to work, as he had, from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., six days a weekfor 57 years of his life. He told everyone he had a good life inAmerica.Throughout the years, he wrote long letters in his antique Italianto the family he left behind in San Gennaro Vesuviano, most often tohis younger brothers, Francesco and Antonio. He often sent money too.

Twenty-one years ago, my wife and I went to visit the brothers,who spelled their name Iovino, carrying my grandfather's letter ofintroduction from the American Eovinos. From what we could tell,little had changed. We slept in the room -- indeed, in the very bed-- where my grandfather was born. Francesco, who owned the house,farmed the two-acre hazelnut grove behind it. Antonio, who lived nextdoor, worked as a carpenter and also farmed his plot. With more thana hint of rivalry, the brothers took turns for two days ferrying usfrom one relative's home to another. Each of the families offered tofeed us. No one wanted us to leave.I promised to come back. But I never did -- until a month ago.What I learned on that return trip changed what I think about myentire family's future -- and my grandfather's past.For the past eight months, a team led by associate editor DeniseTopolnicki and assistant managing editor Tyler Mathisen has traveledaround the globe to produce this issue, marking the beginning ofMONEY's 20th year. The assignment: to determine who lives best -- andthen to explain how our readers can improve their lives by learningfrom others. What we discovered will be heartening to Americans.Despite all we have heard about our nation's decline -- and what wefear may be true -- we not only still live better than anyone else,we live far better, especially compared with our major economicrivals, the Germans and Japanese. Furthermore, our reportingidentified five all- American attributes, such as our acceptance ofimmigrants and of working women, that suggest our children will alsolive better than the children of other lands.We at MONEY realize, of course, that there is a limit to whatstatistics and objective reporting can reveal about other people'slives. It doesn't tell you much about their values. Or how contentthey are at the end of the day. Or how optimistic they are abouttheir children's future. Everyone knows that people in the smallesthouses sometimes have the biggest smiles.As we discussed the problem, my mind turned to my grandfather andthe brothers he left in Italy. They knew from his letters and hisgifts that he was making it in America. Yet none of the adults, northe children, asked him to help them immigrate, even in the barrenyears after World War II. What did they have that they wouldn't tradefor a full stomach? And, more to the point, do they still havewhatever that was?Could it be that by some measure beyond statistics, my relativesthere are living better, perhaps with home and work in balance, thanmy relatives here? Moreover, if somehow I had been born to thatbranch of the family and had raised my family in Italy, would we bemore content than we are now?I felt compelled to get an answer. With my elder daughter, Carla,19, I returned to my grandfather's hometown a month ago and asked allthe Iovinos I could find this question: Do you dream of a happierlife in America, as I sometimes do about Italy?Nothing had prepared me for what my relatives told me aboutthemselves and about my grandfather.The piazza in the heart of the quiet, rural village of San GennaroVesuviano was the first clue. It was no longer the dusty, desolatesquare block etched in my memory. A bustling cafe dominates onecorner, directly across from a neon-bright gasoline station. And theempty lots, dating back to wartime bombing, that had separated onehome from another, like the gaps between an old woman's teeth, arefilled now -- not just with houses, but with multistory apartmentbuildings.Three households of Iovinos were waiting for us in the same spot Ihad left them 21 years ago, the courtyard behind the two brothers'homes. Everything else was different. Both brothers died years ago.So did Francesco's wife. But their sons, and Antonio's wife Anna, whois still active at 81, live with their families in gleaming renovatedquarters in their original homes. Within minutes we were presentedwith the same grand lunch of macaroni followed by grilled steak thatthey gave to my wife and me in 1970. Then, however, the ^ family onlyserved us; they did not sit with us and eat. This time 11 of usshared the food and the family's history for hours. And the nextafternoon, a Sunday, there was a seven-course feast for 20, featuringthe family's own poplar mushrooms over pasta.Between meals we ate. As on my first visit, the family took theirAmerican guests from one Iovino household's dining room table toanother's. Beyond the abundance of food, there were unmistakablesigns of prosperity in the spotless homes of these farmers,schoolteachers and small businessmen -- big-screen TVs, VCRs, avideo camera. One cousin, who had been described to me as theschool-bus driver, turned out to own a tour-bus company and the localradio station. The floors in his impressive home were marble. Anotherrelative walked me past his six tanker trucks, which haul wine andolive oil, to his most prized possessions, a race horse and her foal.And another escorted me through his bountiful farm to the far end toshow me the three-bedroom home he built and furnished for hisdaughter as a wedding gift.As proud as they are of their progress, the Iovinos freelyacknowledged that their lives are less than perfect. Sacrifice andthrift dictate daily routine, down to making a conscious decisionbefore switching on a light bulb. And most of the married womencomplained bitterly that their husbands, and sons, treat them likemaids. The men refuse to help with household chores, even servingdrinks, and almost without exception forbid the women the freedom towork away from home. ''What would your husband do if you took ajob?'' I asked one woman of about 50. With a tight smile, she pulledher finger across her throat.Furthermore, the Camorra -- the Neapolitan Mafia -- maintains afeudal grip on this Mezzogiorno area south of Rome. In some villages,anyone who wants to sell even his own home must offer it first to thelocal crime boss. Few defy these men. The night before I arrived,three bodies were found down the road.Still, despite those drawbacks, virtually all of the parents I metwere extremely optimistic about their children's futures in whatEuropean economists are describing as the Golden Age of Italy. It wasno surprise to my relatives that, during my visit, more than 18,000Albanian refugees were risking death to live in their country. Theheadline writers there have a term for the immigrant quest. They callit ''The Italian Dream.''As I neared the end of my visit, I felt grateful for the freedomand opportunity we take for granted in America. I also was happyfor my Italian relatives. I could understand why one after another ofthem had said no, they don't dream of a better life in America. ''Wedon't have to go to America,'' said Francesco's 50-year-old son,Serafino Iovino. ''America has come to Italy. Now we are well-off(adesso stiamo bene), even the Iovino family.''What about years ago? I persisted. Did the brothers ever dream ofjumping on a horse and riding off to prosperity like my grandfatherdid?The relatives stared at me, puzzled. That's not how yourgrandfather went to America, they said. They told me this story. Notonly did young Salvatore have a temper, he was on the evil road, lastrada cattiva, hanging out with street gangs, gambling, getting intofistfights and even carrying a knife. His mother feared that he wouldend up being recruited by the local crime family, the Guappi -- the''men of respect'' who went on to organize the Camorra.One day Salvatore's mother sent him with the cart to buy thefamily's supply of bread flour. He returned with a large dog he hadbought instead. They had a furious argument that ended when she said,''I never want to see you again.'' Shortly afterward, the family sentSalvatore to America.''His parents were desperate,'' says Antonio's son, Luigi Iovino,52. ''They sent him away to save him.''''Desperation of one sort or another,'' Luigi added, ''is why allthe emigrants went to America. They weren't pulled away from here byopportunity. They were driven away by desperation.''So there you have the two family myths. Obviously, each side has astake in its story. The American Eovinos have always believed thatthey were the descendants of an adventurous achiever. Of course, theylive well today. Salvatore gave them the gift of prosperity byrunning away to America. The Italian Iovinos have always believedthat Salvatore, though beloved, was sent away for his own good. Tothem, their fathers, Francesco and Antonio, were the true achievers-- the survivors. Of course, they live well today. Their fathers gavethem the gift of family strength by staying in Italy.What's the truth? Did Salvatore buy his ticket to America? Or didhis parents get it and send him away?Nobody knows. I prefer to think that he ran away, just as I preferto believe that my family is living better in this country than wecould anywhere else in the world. But then again, I have a stake inthat story.,